Our Stories
by BlackWingedTraveler
Summary: Every nation has a story, and so does every song. Song Drabble Challenge.


**Life After You**

He had successfully held onto his composure, and none of his men had noticed that he had cracked, that it was taking all of his effort to not cry, to not beg him to come back, to wonder how he was losing them all. They had had such a good relationship, he was so well behaved, how could it come down to this? Was he cursed to lose all that he loved? England didn't know, but he felt that it was starting to seem that way, starting to seem that everyone that mattered to him would walk away, or in the case of humans like Elizabeth, be buried while he lived on without them.

It was when he was back in his room, in the place that he would soon have to vacate, that England finally broke down. It had hurt more than he thought, seeing Canada's violet eyes dismissing him as the blonde walked away, for good.

* * *

><p><strong>Shissou<strong>

His lungs felt as if they were going to burst, but Italy kept going, kept running. Gunshots rang behind him, and he continued to run, his legs burning, and tears springing up into his eyes, but Italy didn't, couldn't stop. Running was the one thing that everyone knew both of the Italies could do, so he'd keep going, keep running.

Germany had said that he was to meet them there, and he could run when it came down to it, so the country kept going. After all, it was Germany, his best friend, one of the most important (if not _the)_ people to him. He'd run a thousand miles for Germany! And more! After all, it _was_ the only thing he could do right.

* * *

><p><strong>Angels on the Moon<strong>

The nations continue, ever living, ever breathing, ever incarnate. Fighting friends, lovers, family on the battlefield, teaming up with those that they despise the most, going through hardships, struggles, and tears for their people, for themselves, knowing that there won't be any respite.

Why is it, then, that they would cultivate relationships with those that they could be trying to kill in a few decades? Wouldn't it be best that they all kept to themselves, let their people fight, and just quietly lived out their long, long time on Earth?

But like two opposite magnets, or the force of gravity, they all come together, wanting to take a risk and find someone that they can stay with for the rest of their eternity. Some find that person, or people. Most don't. And yet, they continue, even when they get burned, when they're charred and scarred and crying in despair. They won't that other person, those people that will stick with them, that once they are friends, they will always be, even when on the other side of the battlefield.

They don't want to be alone forever. Who would?

* * *

><p><strong>Sleepers<strong>

It lured him, called him, the tempting the abyss of sleep that hovered on the edge of his senses. But Japan wouldn't let it win, wouldn't let it put him under, and he struggled, on the edge of consciousness, slowly opening his reluctant eyes.

It was devastation. He could already feel it. His people, crying, and dying, while the very earth that made up his land crying in absolute agony, fraught with pain, and toxin, with sorrow coming from the depths of his being.

The Japanese people were defeated. A bitter smile curled on his face, that it had been forced to come to this. He knew it was his fault, that he should have given in when his Allies did, but he had not thought that the naïve America would go this far.

World War II was over.

* * *

><p><strong>Ordinary Girl<strong>

For most of her life, Liechtenstein had been alone, so to have someone take care of her was a novel experience. Sure, Germania and Rome had on the occasion, a long time ago, but for the most part, the Principality had been on her own. And now Switzerland was concerned for her well-being, taking care of her over himself.

Unbidden, the first in a long time, a large smile crept over her face. Switzerland, pausing in his instruction of how to navigate his house, gave her an odd look. "What is it, Liechtenstein?" he asked, stumbling over her nation name self-consciously.

Shaking her head, Liechtenstein's grin just grew bigger. "Nothing… Big Brother," she told him, giggling at the blush that appeared on his face and the stammering following that. Yes, this was nice.

* * *

><p><strong>Out There<strong>

She wanted out. It would be hard to be her own country, to run herself, and to not have China assisting her in any way, as he was unlikely to help, but she wanted to be her own country, to be called Taiwan by the countries that currently didn't know she existed, to be free.

After all, despite the fact that she lived a good life, she felt so trapped, so alone, so cut off from everyone else. It wasn't like the nations often knew the colonies underneath one another unless they were trying to steal them from another, and all Taiwan knew were her fellow Asians. She remembered the day that all of them left, and she wanted out.

Just a little bit. Just a little bit of freedom.

* * *

><p><strong>Prodigal<strong>

He couldn't bear to see him crying. He just couldn't. So America turned away, walked away, his feet leaving muddy footprints that were quickly washed away by the ever pouring rain. He had won. _He had won._

So why did he feel like crying? He could do this without England, he could, he could be his own country. And therein lay the problem.

He still wanted England. Still wanted him to read him stories about pirates and princesses, to pat him on the head and tell him how good he had been doing, for him to be proud and boast to the other nations about _his_ colony, about _his_ little brother.

But it was too late to go back to those days now. America and England had walked different paths, and he could never have that back again.

…Huh. He never knew that rain could taste of salt.

* * *

><p><strong>Hello, Beautiful<strong>

He loved Finland. Sweden knew it with every fiber of his being, every heartbeat that thrummed in his chest, every breath he took. He loved the other nation so, so much.

And yet, at the same time, he didn't know if the other felt the same way. In fact, most of the time, he would say that the other was afraid of him. But then there were the times when he had seen him fight, seen him scream out obscenities at an enemy as he utterly decimated him, but seen him smile cheerfully as he presented his odd cooking to him or cuddle up to him when he was cold.

It didn't make any sense to Sweden, and as he held the other nation as he slept, he found he didn't care. As long as they were together, and he could greet him every morning, he was fine.

* * *

><p><strong>Down<strong>

He waited. For a long time, waited. Every single day, he'd run to door, hoping for a glimpse of him, of his love, but there was no one there. That was okay, though. He'd be there tomorrow.

Oh, the day after.

Day after that?

Next week?

A month, that had to be it.

By the end of the year.

Next year.

Next year.

Next year.

And so they passed, the years flying by, and he waited, searching for a glimpse. He trusted him at his word, though, and knew he would be home. After all, he had promised. And Holy Rome would never break a promise.

He wouldn't.

Would he?

Sobbing broken into Hungary's shoulder, after years and years of waiting, Italy was forced to conclude that all promises were not made to be kept. He'd still wait for him, though.

Forever and ever.

North Italy never, _ever_ broke a promise.

* * *

><p><strong>Butterfly Wings<strong>

Belarus loved Big Brother. And always would. He needed her, after all. Who else could love Brother for all that he was, even for the atrocities he had committed? Sister could, but only in a platonic way.

No, she was the best for him. And besides…

She remembered the lesson that Sister had taught her, so long ago that she couldn't remember the years. That when you were in love and that person loved you back, you'd be free. Free to fly away, to forget the past, and to be wrapped up in your love for the other.

And she wanted that for Big Brother. He deserved it.

* * *

><p><strong>We Are<strong>

Taiwan never really fully realized what drew her to Japan. Even though he obviously didn't care for her the same way she felt for him, even if he wanted to hide away from the world, even though he didn't know her, didn't want her…

Maybe that was the temptation? Was the saying true, that all girls wanted bad boys? He had blood on his hands, and was old, far older than the much younger nation, and had seen more, done more, and was intrigue wrapped up in a small bundle, hidden behind guarded eyes and closed doors.

Did she want to bring him out of his shell? No, he was perfect, just fine the way he was… It was the wanting, the desire of having something dangerous that you'd never have, that if she went too far, that if she crossed the line too much… That old Japan could rear his head, ancient and deadly and blood-stained, and end her.

Danger. That was what Taiwan desired. And that was Japan, despite what other countries might think, despite what facades he may put up or how he has changed. Wrapped up in a neat little bundle.

* * *

><p><strong>Anywhere But Here<strong>

Switzerland sighed, shifting in his chair. It had been a long, long day, and he was absolutely exhausted. All he had wanted to do, as soon as he got home, was collapse in bed. But no, he had to make dinner, had to make sure the house was clean and that Liechtenstein was well cared for…

Lo' and behold, however, when he stepped into the kitchen… His 'little sister' was cheerfully preparing dinner, humming all the while, and the house was absolutely spotless. "Y-You're making dinner?" he managed to ask, surprising the smaller nation.

She smiled at him, however, that innocent smile that he didn't know how she retained, and nodded. "Yes, Big Brother. Now go wash up and sit down, I'm almost done!" Startled into obeying (though it wasn't like he would ignore her, anyway), Switzerland did as she asked, sitting down stiffly at the table, and she set his plate down in front of him.

Blinking in surprise, he looked up at her. "You made my favorite?"

Liechtenstein nodded, blushing slightly yet smiling. "Yes, you've been working hard, and you look tired, so I thought I would…" Averting her eyes, she bit her lip nervously, continuing. "I've never made it before, so I'm sorry if it didn't turn out well…"

Hesitantly, the older nation took a bite. It wasn't the worst, definitely, but it was a far cry from meals he had eaten in the past. And yet this one tasted much better than all of them, maybe due to the warmth permeating him as he spoke up. "It's delicious."

Her answering smile was all he needed.

* * *

><p><strong>Simple and Clean<strong>

There was only one person who knew that Russia liked sunflowers. In a moment of weakness, the large nation had confided in Lithuanian, who had seemed surprised, but not said a simple word of mocking. When the Baltic nation left him, as did many, he feared that he would spread the word, that he would be made fun of (though he would certainly bash in their faces), and that it would truly be that he could only trust his sisters, and only with small, single bits of information.

Yet he heard nothing. No one said anything, no one did anything, and Lithuania had not said a word. He was trustworthy.

Maybe that was why, when he had had an especially hard day, he would call up the other nation and talk to him, or invite him over more than the other Baltic nations, or simply feel more comfortable around him.

And when spring came, one fateful year, and he received a packet of sunflower seeds and instructions on how to plant and care for them, Russia called up the other nation, who willingly agreed to come over and help him make a garden.

It had been the best birthday yet.

* * *

><p><strong>Be Myself<strong>

Poland didn't get why he was often made fun of by the other nations. His speech, his ponies, his clothes, his favorite colors, his attitude… They were often mocked by his fellows, and even those that didn't make fun of him often just sniggered behind his back or rolled their eyes. Did they think he couldn't see them? He wasn't blind!

Just because he embraced every aspect of himself, let everything come to the surface, and never hid anything, because he felt there was almost never a need for secrets… That was no reason to mock someone, no reason to think that they were weird, and odd, and strange.

It had been his outspokenness that was often cited for his treatment during the war, by the German bastards, and so Poland had embraced it, casting all self-consciousness to the wind. He could be exactly who he wanted to be, and no one would stop him, damn it!

And besides, those that really cared about him… Hungary, North Italy, Lithuania… They didn't care. And if they didn't, why should he? He was exactly who he was supposed to be, and he was comfortable in his own skin.

* * *

><p><strong>Walking on Sunshine<strong>

Germany always enjoyed walking his dogs. It was always a fun experience for him, to see them running and barking and sniffing gaily at everything. Sometimes, Italy or Japan or Prussia joined him, and that lightened up the mood sometimes, with their presence, but there were times when the nation just wanted to be on his lonesome with them.

After all, dogs weren't judgmental, and loved unconditionally when you treated them nice. They didn't cry constantly, or freak out over kind of stupid things, or be nuisances of themselves when he was trying to work. No, dogs were definitely the best.

* * *

><p><strong>Hello Seattle<strong>

He was –the composer at his piano, the children running on the beach- Cuba. A –politician stamping his approval, a tour guide showing off his museum- communist country. He had –rich music playing in the square, surf kicked up by the waves- few friends, few allies.

He was –perfecting his math assignment, grocery shopping for his family, driving tiredly home- alone. But not really.

* * *

><p><strong>Get Out Alive<strong>

She felt as if she were being torn in two. Ripped beyond compare as two sides battled over her, tearing her asunder as she held back her tears of pain and endured. She had been through worse, she would be fine. Vietnam was strong, she could stand being torn in two.

She had suffered under France, though she created her own alphabet.

She had broken free, become her own nation.

How many times had she had to break free? Too many.

But she didn't cry. Not when America kissed her forehead and apologized. Not when Russia came swooping in, and claimed her. Not when China fussed over her, and she pushed him away. Not when she was alone, isolated, for years, just her and her people.

But when she came out of isolation and her family was there. Taiwan, South Korea, China, Japan, Tibet, Mongolia, Thailand… America… They had been hers, at one point or another. She had counted them as her own.

But now, she had no one.

* * *

><p><strong>Prelude<strong>

It was burning, his capital was burning. Tears stinging in his eyes from the heat, and a pain, inside of him, America stood, watching one of the symbols of himself, of the country of the United States of America, burn. Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust, he thought bitterly, a wry smile in place on his face.

Canada had done this. Huh, were they Cain and Abel, now? Seemed fitting. And as he turned, and walked away, to find his Boss, the nation pondered one question. If they were Cain and Abel…

Which one was the marked one?

* * *

><p><strong>I Never Wanted To<strong>

Latvia sometimes wished that he had a censor. Something to stop the words in his head from reaching his mouth, something that would stop him from crying, from trembling, from honestly answering questions that he shouldn't. Alas, God had not given him such.

Swigging back another glass of vodka, Latvia decided to was just as well that he didn't. If Russia had focused on him, well… It would give his 'brothers' a break. A hint of a self-deprecating smile inched its way onto his lips. And that was all he was good for. Distraction.

* * *

><p><strong>Until the Day I Die<strong>

Canada was the country that no one noticed. He was practically invisible, part of the wallpaper, or the carpet, or even part of the chair (though he _swore_ Russia had known he was there). In some ways, he didn't like it. Always getting mistaken for his brother, almost never noticed… It wore on a nation, made him feel invisible.

But then, when he was noticed, it was extra special. When Cuba brought over ice cream, when Netherlands brought flowers, when Prussia came and demanded pancakes, when America dragged him out for burgers or France complimented his clothes or England remembered exactly how he took his tea… He felt warm inside.

Of course, he wasn't always remembered for the simple things. There was a reason he was Germany's bogeyman, after all. And that Hong Kong always liked to make sure he was firmly in the land of the living every time that he encountered the other, and Belgium could barely look at him. Sometimes, being invisible was alright with him.

* * *

><p><strong>Moment of Truth<strong>

Romano grinned. Really, truly, completely grinned. "Thanks, Spain!" he told the other nation, taking a tomato from the crate that had been brought over, taking a bite and relishing in it. He really, really liked tomatoes. No, wait, he loved them.

It wasn't because they were absolutely fabulous either, though that was definitely a contributing factor. No, it was because growing a garden of tomatoes, after much practice with Spain, all by himself, was the first thing that Romano had ever done that he credited as a success. Oh, sure, there were other things, architecture, history, masterpieces… But those were all _Italy_, not Romano. Two parts together, not the Southern, oft-forgotten part.

Maybe other nations didn't remember, only knew that he enjoyed them. But those that he cared about, Spain, Veneziao, Belgium… They had heard when he went to announce the budding of them, and had learned far more about how well is gardening was doing than they probably wanted to.

And so, enjoying his favorite fruit with his (though he'd never say it) best friend, the Italian decided it didn't matter.

* * *

><p><strong>Rainbow Veins<strong>

Tibet had always loved rainbows. They were beautiful, a sign from the heavens above, and always cheered people up. The bald nation was always wanting for things that would delight people, that would cause them to laugh and to smile and to bring up the happiness in the world, and he found that rainbows were one of the best things for the solution.

They came after the hard parts in life, after the rain and the storms and the thunder and lightning, shooting a ribbon of colors into the sky, causing many who saw it to marvel at its beauty. Tibet had never met a person (yes, even Switzerland) who couldn't help the corners of their mouth quirk up slightly at the sight of such a beauty.

It was a perfect metaphor, the feature in many myths and stories, and Tibet loved them.

So, every time he saw one, he'd grab his camera to snap a few shots. Facebook could always due with more pictures of beauty.

* * *

><p><strong>Llegar a Ti<strong>

France had loved many times in his life. He fell in love with a cranky, cantankerous child, always putting pebbles and such into his mouth, always the most uncouth. He fell in love with a joyous man, smile always in place and always discussing the cuteness in things. He fell in love with a loud man, masking his feelings and always gaining the joy in life.

He fell in love with three children, three wonderful, gorgeous children. One a girl, beautiful and exotic, two boys, one loud and rambunctious and belonging to someone else, one quiet and cute and loved to cuddle and stolen from him forever. He fell in love with a beautiful Asian teenager, quiet yet rebellious, whom he entrapped and then found himself letting go, as she turned her back on him forever.

He fell in love with a human. A beautiful, courageous human that was killed by that cranky, cantankerous child, lost to him for as long as he walked the earth, and perhaps even beyond that, for what place did nations have in a human heaven?

France had lost his heart many, many times, to many, many people. Each one taking a piece of them, some returning it, some ignoring it, some not even aware that they held such a heart. It left him broken, alone, heartless, and constantly trying to find something or someone to fill that heart where the many pieces of his heart should've laid.

He didn't regret a single moment.

* * *

><p><strong>All that I'm Living For<strong>

China had lived for far longer than most nations had. Yes, most nations had been around for far longer than they remembered, but that was the difference: he _remembered._ He was alive for much longer than he claimed he had been, for what was the point of owning the years that one could not remember, that he could only dredge up in the barest corners of his minds? He saw none.

Besides, he did not live in the past. Sure, he missed those days when he was an Empire, when he was strong and ruled and had all of his siblings underneath his dominion. It was everything he ever wanted.

After all, he lived in the present. With his brothers and his sisters and his allies and his friends, with sitting in the corner and smiling and complaining with a grin until his cheeks hurt so much that he couldn't handle it anymore and smashed a wall.

All that he wanted. It was simple, was it not? He wanted to live in the past. With his brothers and his sisters, and the memories of the past actually remembered.

* * *

><p><strong>Dear Vienna<strong>

Austria wasn't sure if he could explain the process of music to anyone who wasn't knowledgeable in it. How the music flowed from his mind, to his fingertips, to be played out on whatever instrument was of his choosing, spreading the notes and the chords and the keys to all who could hear, expressing some sort of message to the world.

Some wrote poetry. Some painted. Some even got into fights and cried and wore their emotions on their sleeves, never expressing them anywhere but outwardly.

But for Austria, as he grew more reserved and less open and less friendly, expressed his emotions through his music, letting them flow and ebb and filling the world with his innermost feelings. Yet few knew what they meant.

Italy, Germany, Prussia, Hungary… Maybe even Switzerland and Liechtenstein. They knew his music, knew his moods. After all, it was all about reading one and listening. It wasn't that hard to understand music, was it?

* * *

><p><strong>Vanilla Twilight<strong>

Sealand was quite happy with his 'family'. There was his Mom, Finland, his Dad, Sweden, his annoying bastard of an older brother, England, and any of his 'cousins' that he could choose to hang with at anytime. Seychelles, Australia, Canada, even America! It was nice, honestly. Even if he wasn't a country, even if they _all_ regarded him as a micro nation, it was better to have so many people surrounding him.

"S-Sealand?" stammered his best friend, the one that completed the mix of nations. "Are y-you c-coming?"

Snatching up his hat, happy smile on his face, Sealand quickly followed his friend out the door. "Yep! Let's go, Latvia!" he announced, snatching the other's hand, and pulling him behind him as he ran.

Yeah, it was nice.

* * *

><p><strong>Hogar Dulce Hogar<strong>

There were times when Ukraine wished she could take a trip back in time. Back to when her siblings weren't tormented by their own terrors, back when they were still a family, still stuck together, and she was still the mother, still the one they would turn to when they had those terrors, and she could take care of them.

If she could, there would be so much that she would do differently… She'd be proactive, and take care of them, and not cry, and when the time rolled around, Ukraine would be the Communist country, the largest in the world, and Russia would be the small one leaving her, Belarus in tow.

Someone would have to fill that role, and if she could take it from her brother, the older nation would, in a heartbeat. But, alas, she couldn't take away the past, couldn't fix it.

So she held back her tears, and smiled, and always welcomed her brother and her sister into her house. Even if she had to annoy them, be annoying optimistic, and cry and cry and cry, Ukraine would lighten their loads, if only for an hour.

It came with the package of being an older sister.

* * *

><p><strong>Until the Last Man<strong>

Ancient Egypt remembered her natives, her old, ancient natives.

She remembered the gods, Osiris, Anubis, so many of them, and the gold that gilded her palace and her Pharoahs.

The slaves, whips on their backs, with straw and bricks and building of the pyramids.

Of walls of water, torment, and the screams of the dying as her world buckled around her.

About that one nation, the one that got away and would forever get away, who killed her people with nothing.

To some, it would be history, the type of thing that they learned in school or from other nations.

As she gritted her teeth after awaking from another nightmare, Ancient Egypt wished, as all nations did at one point or another, that it was the same for her. For her, it had been her life and her people, and the loss and torment never went away.

* * *

><p><strong>Show Me Love<strong>

The Holy Roman Empire had never been one to show affection openly. He did not hug, and was not hugged. He did not give kisses, and did not receive them in return. It was just the way that it was, and he was alright with that.

But it was why, once again, Italy baffled him. He could feel the softness of her hand, even long after his had been parted from hers. Most of the time, when he encountered her, it sent a burning blush through his whole body, and he felt as if he were enveloped by heat. And her lips… Upon his… It was a sensation that would stick with him his entire life.

It still bothered him, that he never understood it, or the girl, but as long as… A trembling hand rose to his lips, on his beet red face, and he pushed the thoughts away. Yes, it was fine he didn't understand.

* * *

><p><strong>Get Out Alive<strong>

He didn't regret killing him. Even though the other was his best friend, and his ally, and sometimes his enemy, and the biggest annoyance he had ever seen… Germania did not care. He had killed the other, had slaughtered him and watched his lifeblood bleed out until the ground was saturated with red, stained with the color forever, and his boots were covered in the sticky mess…

It was in his hair, his clothes, his boots, that forever eternal red stain that no amount of washing could remove. It was the last of Rome, anyway, so why would he wash it out? Let the barbarian's blood linger on longer than he did. A delicious irony, yet Germania couldn't help himself when he tried to search for the familiar scent of the other nation, even with the crimson and copper tang of blood within his nostrils.

Someday, he too would bleed out, until he was nothing, nothing but the dust of the earth and the memory in people's minds, leaving behind the history of a nation that had conquered, killed, and then been killed himself. And his blood boiled, as if wanting to escape right now, and not continue to hold on, simply to be reunited with the outside world.

* * *

><p><strong>Airplanes<strong>

Vietnam had never been one for fanciful dreaming or for wishes, whether on a star or on a birthday, or on any of the plentiful occasions that most found to be a time for making a wish, or dream, hoping that someone, or something, would grant that wish.

The closest that she ever got to something along those lines was her reading. She enjoyed the fairy tales, the fanciful tales for the young, no matter what country they were from or who wrote them. The closest thing that she had ever gotten were her brief, fleeting dreams of not being a nation, not being burdened with all of this responsibility that dogged her, day after day and year after year. Instead, being one of those fairy tale characters that always got a happy ending.

But, standing in the remnants of her own country, as her people were torn apart and she was breaking from the inside out, Vietnam couldn't help but make one brief wish, despite the fact that it was not one of those occasions. _Someone, save me._

* * *

><p><strong>Just a Little Girl<strong>

Sometimes, Liechtenstein hated how she was so looked down upon by all the other nations, how they just thought she was hanging off of her brother, and that his protection of her was the only real reason that she was alive at all.

It was horrid.

They never bothered to remember the fact that, until the German Federation, she had been alone for most of her life. She raised herself, and unlike many nations, who raised themselves with a friend or ally or older country on hand, the principality had done it on her own, with no one's help. And she had stuck around, hadn't she?

No one remembered the German Federation, where she stayed in the background and kept to herself, and the own nation besides her own brother who even had the faintest inkling of her past was Sweden, one who many stayed away from because of his scary face.

Maybe the ignorance was a blessing, though, because the surprised faces the other nations made whenever she befriended a 'scary' nation were priceless.

* * *

><p><strong>Gift of a Friend<strong>

Netherlands was quite the loner nation, and all knew it. It wasn't that he didn't like hanging around people, but he didn't go out of his way to seek other nations out. Belgium was an exception to this rule, but she was his sister, and therefore didn't count. No, Netherlands never sought others out, and they came to him. It was how it worked.

But there was one friendship that was entirely mutual, where both looked for the other, and gave gifts, and smiled and laughed together, and that was with the nation of Canada.

His friend was so overlooked, so underloved, and Netherlands was more than ready to step into position for him. He was the venting board, and he knew far more about the younger nation that he wanted to, from his family to his troubles to how he spent the weekend staring at his bear's eyelashes.

Yet, the smile on the blonde's face whenever he visited more than made up for it.

* * *

><p><strong>Flying High<strong>

America lived and breathed air. No, duh, not _that_ kind, but being in the air. Cruising in his plane, swooping through the skies like the bird, dodging the birds themselves… It was the closest thing he could get to truly being airborne, and the nation reveled in it, using every opportunity he could to escape to the air.

During a rare moment of deep thinking, he wondered if this was how England felt, on his ships. That feeling of freedom, of being able to conquer and stop anything in your path, that the world is endlessly open to you and that nothing can halt your way.

It was an intoxicating feeling, one that America sometimes avoided, for fear of that heady rush changing his thinking into that of an Empire, and losing his ideals and the very foundation of who he was, but he could never stay away for long. Like a drug, the air screamed for him, to carve out the clouds with his wings and mold the blueness of the sky into a picturesque beauty.

So he did, his wings dappled by the light and his blue eyes squinting into the purples and pinks of the sunset, and his flag ever unfolded. Pursuit of happiness, indeed.

* * *

><p><strong>Gomenasai<strong>

Sometimes there were no words that one could apologize with. Nothing was ever enough. Italy felt that way after the war, after he had surrendered to the Allies and left his friends on their own. Yes, he hadn't been much help in the first place, and he had never really wanted to fight in the war to begin with, but he had _left his friends._ That was the one thing Italies didn't do; leave their friends behind for good.

Yet he didn't know what he could say to make it all better. So he clung to his memories, buried his deep, heart-rending disappointment with himself and shame, covering it with tears and smiles and memories of a kiss, and when he finally saw the two again, he could pretend that nothing was wrong.

And try to erase the lingering feeling of inadequacy.

* * *

><p><strong>Blue Ice Castle<strong>

He was frozen. The cold permeated his bones, chilling him to the core as he stepped through the snow that fell lightly from the heavens. It was his land, his cold, frozen wasteland, one that was a part of him.

He wasn't that cold, was he?

He was warm, wasn't he?

Nice and warm and wrapped up in his scarf, given with the warmth of one who cared for him, with the love of both of his sisters sustaining him.

He was warm, right?

Warm, nice and toasty, with love and sisters and family…

It was his mantra, his prayer, his words of devotion that he used to try and cure himself of the lingering ice that he sometimes felt replace him, deep inside. It never worked.

* * *

><p><strong>Uninstall<strong>

Sometimes, she just wanted it to end. That was reasonable, right? She just wished that everything would go away, but yet… No she didn't. That was why she wanted to leave, right? Because she was alone, forever separated from all by the rolling seas?

Other islands might say that she was being overdramatic, but as the sixth smallest country in the world, one of the most forgotten, Seychelles thought she was being perfectly fine. After all, if you weren't the smallest, and you weren't the largest, you were forgotten…

Oh, yes, the rarity of being female made her relatively welcome among the nations, few as the gender was, and gained her friends of the same gender, but was she close to many?

No.

Would they visit her often?

No.

What of the people? Would they come to her lands, and give her the warmth that came with the pale imprints of the nations she knew and loved?

No.

No one to wake up with, to share the world with at the end of the day, even after phone, no one to text randomly, sporadically, and have them consider it normal. No one to own.

* * *

><p><strong>Billionaire<strong>

Maybe it was the fact that he was sinking ever more slowly into debt each day, dragging the world with him, but America couldn't help but be uber-conscious of money, remembering every cent he spent, penny-pinching and turning into Scrooge over night.

Still… He couldn't help but think back on the fond days when he had plenty, when everyone was warm, everyone was fed, and while it was so vastly different from now, and he wouldn't give up most of his treasures he had now for the world…

Sometimes he wanted to go back to that simpler time, where he'd be curled up by his Boss's hearth, and it was normal, where they were making history with every step they took, and the food was simple and the blankets clean.

He didn't _have_ to be rich, either. That was just a bonus.

* * *

><p><strong>Soldier Side<strong>

They felt them. Every single last one of them.

Each soldier fallen in the line of duty, as the bullet tore through them, or they were gassed, or crushed, or whatever fate had fallen them.

Every prayer that was raised up to the heavens, seeking for those soldiers to come home safely, to greet their families, kiss their spouses, and hug their children.

All of the graves dug, the men buried, while people cried, each of their tears keenly felt.

Each shot fired, each bomb dropped, each area of the country torn and burnt while people cried and they ached, burning and hungry and grief-stricken.

The reluctance to go to war was not the people's. It was the nations. And why would it not be, when they felt the sorrow of all?

* * *

><p><strong>Come<strong>

When he was young, and still underneath France's rule, the older nation would often sing lullabies to him, while Canada drifted off to sleep. The words had long since faded in his memory, but the tune remained, and it was the kind of comforting memory that he kept to himself while in England's home.

"Canada?" the voice of his brother jolted the colony from his memories, and he looked up from his spot on his bed, about to go to sleep. "Can I sleep with you? I need… I-I need to protect you."

The boy in question blinked, startled. "What about England?" he asked curiously, scooting over to leave room for his almost-twin. "Don't you normally go to him?"

America grumbled slightly, heaving himself onto the bed and cuddling into his brother as he slung an arm around him. "I've woke him up a lot this week, but I can't sleep…" he explained softly, his eyes averted as if to lessen the sting that it gave him to speak such words.

Canada, knowing how much it pained the other colony to admit such a thing, ran his hand through his brother's hair, and proceeded to hum one of the lullabies France had taught him. America was out like a light within minutes.

* * *

><p><strong>The Bird and The Worm<strong>

Hong Kong was not silent because he felt he had nothing to say. He had input, had thoughts and feelings and emotions, but he kept them tucked away, underneath lock and key, not to be brought out by anyone.

His siblings, his family, were all overly emotional, even the most stoic of them, crying and flailing and making a big fuss, and he remained quiet, scolding them mentally, yet not saying a single thing. Even when he was pained, even when he was hurt and torn and needed a shoulder to cry on, he remained silent, letting out his anguish in his firecrackers and his dreams and his nightmares, letting them all out in quiet agony.

The world didn't need more noise and pain to deal with.

* * *

><p><strong>Moonlight Shadow<strong>

Turkey hated him. With every fiber of his being, he hated Greece. He was a memory of something that he once had, something that he had wanted and desired, and lost, and a horrible one at that.

He loved her. Loved her with every fiber of his being, loved her with every little piece of himself that reached out for her, even as she was gone, even when she was dead and gone and buried.

Leaving behind him. Her son. Yet not his, not his even though he loved her. A mark, a memory, a horrid tarnish upon the fondness he showed to her.

Perhaps, if he had met the other now, he could've been kind, could've treated him with cordial but distant respect. But when he had met him, when her blood had newly stained the earth and he was alone?

It was all he could do to not slaughter him.

* * *

><p><strong>Vox Populi<strong>

America loved the posters. Uncle Sam, serve your country, all that jazz. He loved them. Calling for unity, calling for peace and to end this war, calling in loyal civilians.

They would end up dying, too, usually with no smile in place, shot down on the battlefield fighting for their country. Because they were lured in by the stupid posters, by the promises for the next generation, for a life without war and freedom and liberty and equality for all, for all to people to pursue their happiness.

Yet he loved the posters, loved inking them, designing them, presenting yet another idea to his Boss as he babbled excitedly about what they were going to do next, about isn't this one so cool, don't you like it? The posters that would lure, and then kill, the bait to bring people into their slaughter and their death. The posters that would rob many a family of a father, a son, a brother.

The posters that America hung up with a smile, whistling a jaunty tune as he danced down the sidewalk.

* * *

><p><strong>Listen to Your Heart<strong>

If there was one thing that Hong Kong was not good at, in any way, shape, or form, it would be listening to his emotions. He was apathetic, uncaring, emotionless.

He didn't react when his sister was harmed, other to fight more.

He didn't react when he was stolen from his family, found family there, and then stolen once more.

He didn't react when he contemplated his place in the world, and realized that he didn't have any place that could truly be home, because some aspect would be missing, somehow.

But when she died, oh, when she died… A single tear, fell. That was all.

* * *

><p><strong>Falling Up<strong>

Perhaps it came with being a nation, the feeling of being disoriented. The feeling that up was down, left was right, and all the blood was rushing to your head as you tried to make a decision.

When allies were enemies, friends betrayed you, and you sat alone with thousands of people around you, crying silently without shedding a tear.

The feeling of emptiness, when you looked back on what you had at the beginning, and all your work to get where you are now, and realized that you had gained nothing, and lost much.

When yet another Boss disappeared without a backwards glance, and you had to retell your story, over and over, disbelief, shock, awe, as the words turned ash in your mouth.

The times when you opened a photo album, laughed at the pictures of beautiful moments, cried at the pictures of the long dead, and smiled at those bearing the image of the nations that would no longer look at you.

Contradiction was in your very nature, and you had to learn it.

* * *

><p><strong>Photograph<strong>

It was a pity that he didn't have any pictures of that time. Of any of the times, really. He had childish drawings, long-used-up firecrackers, a plush fish, a piece of fluff from a stitched up bear, and a storybook. Old, and used, and oft-read, to all of the nations that had once been underneath his care, with wrinkled pages, faded pictures, and covered with the yellowing of age.

All of them were tucked away, within a box in his attic. Covered in dust, old, yet not forgotten.

And when he wanted to reminisce, wanted to go back to the days when he was a big brother, wanted and needed and loved, England would go up, cradle the fragile contents of the box, and smile softly, sadly, reflecting on memories. It was too bad they were too good to last.

* * *

><p><strong>Don't Stop<strong>

…So he had gotten a girlfriend before his brother. Big whup. Apparently, America didn't agree.

With wide eyes behind his glasses, doughnut in his mouth and arms flailing so much that Canada was worried one of the vases would be knocked over, his brother _wouldn't stop talking._ "Dude, I can't believe you're dating Lady Gaga!" He yelled, attracting the attention of everyone who wasn't completely deaf within the ten mile radius. "I mean, look at you!"

For once in his life wishing he could go invisible on the spot, he buried his face in Kumataka's fur, his face burning crimson. "Shut up, Al," he hissed.

And, as always, he was ignored.

* * *

><p><strong>You Found Me<strong>

If someone asked Italy why he liked Germany, he'd have a long list of things, from how nice his hair was, to his nice muscles, to how he ate his pasta. It was simple for him to come up with things like that, to rattle off a list of compliments intended for his best friend.

If someone thought enough to ask him why he _loved_ Germany, he'd get a very, very different answer. First, the exuberant nation would become quiet, the ghosts in his gaze surfacing as he thought back to held hands, promises never kept, paintings, swimming, and odd gifts. He wouldn't voice those thoughts, however, and would simply smile sadly. "He found me," would be his answer, and most of those very few who thought to ask the question would think of the tomato crate.

Precious few would hear the un-voiced 'again'.

* * *

><p><strong>Llegar a Ti<strong>

He loved cute things. It was simplistic, something that people could sympathize with, and a fact that everyone who had ever so much as spoken a word with him knew. It was obvious.

Many, but not the one that mattered, knew what, or, rather, _who_, he considered the most cute. Spain thought it was obvious. Romano, apparently, did not.

But as he offered his very best friend, his former little minion, yet another tomato, and watched him light up, the nation smiled. He could easily wait for him to figure it out.

He wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

><p><strong>You Can't Take Me<strong>

Sometimes, Hungary missed the simpler days. Back when she thought she was still male, free to do whatever she wished and conquer whoever she wanted to, back before the dresses and the skirts and even the matchmaking of two lovely men.

Yes, even that, much as it pained her to admit it.

She liked it, back then, before the revelation. She was a boy, she could pick on people without people whispering about her, be drenched in blood while she fought without getting called a monster, and not be forced to stay in the kitchen, but rather to the front lines.

It called to her, the fighting, the freedom, the courageous calls as she raised her sword, running forward into battle regardless of gender or sex.

Hungary was still that way, underneath the skirts. It was best not to underestimate her.

* * *

><p><strong>Word Count: <strong>7,945 Words

**A/N: **Fifty whole Song Drabble things. C: Can't believe I finished them. Originally, I was going to do a hundred, but the document's been getting too big for Word to handle very well, so I'll be posting those as a separate chapter once I finish them. And it'll take a _long_ time.


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